OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

Not all Good Times and Gravy

On April 5, 2025, 3.5 million Americans from all walks of life gathered in cities across the country to legally and peacefully protest the storm of destruction that is currently blowing across what was once the greatest country in the world. Democrats, Republicans, women, men, seniors, children, veterans, educators, and all manner of other folks joined together on the front lines of democracy, placing themselves directly in this path of chaos as they exercised their First Amendment rights to free speech before he who shall remain nameless tries to remove it via presidential decree. No one stormed any buildings, or tried to murder any government officials, or hurt any policemen, or to engage in any other of the egregious behaviors exhibited on that black day in our country’s history, Jan. 6.

I, too, joined in this display of patriotism, and on a side note, I did not arrive unprepared. I stopped at Dollar General to buy some posterboard to make my signage. I intended to make four and to give two of those away to fellow protesters, but halfway through the checkout procedure the price jumped from 87 cents to $37.96. I guess the tariffs on art supplies kicked in, and even though paying more for things for no particular reason is supposed to be good for me as an American, I left the last two pieces there on the counter.

On another side note, none of the people here in my town were paid professional protesters bused in for nefarious purposes. These were my neighbors and my friends, regardless of what the crazy right-wing spin doctors might be saying to the contrary. I mean, durn. Getting paid for a political exercise? Where do they think we are? Wisconsin?

I live in Rome, Georgia, a little town halfway between Chattanooga and Atlanta, and it was in that town that I joined with 250 other patriots as we, too, did our patriotic duty. First off, Rome is solidly red, and the surrounding county is even redder, so none of us were quite sure how our endeavors would be received by the general populace. I am not a political person by nature, and it takes a lot to get me stirred into action. The last time I felt the need to join a protest was in 1971. The issue then was Vietnam, of course, and my strong desire to avoid visiting that country courtesy of the United States Army. I was young, strong, and poor without the slightest trace of a bone spur, so for me it was just a matter of time.

As is my way, it generally takes a couple of paragraphs to get to my point, but this time it took five, and you’re just going to have to live with it. But here we are. The protest was held at one of the busiest intersections in Rome, and I want to talk about the reactions we elicited from the passing vehicles. First off, and surprisingly to me, I would say that a good 50% of the motorists who passed by on this busy Saturday morning indicated approval by one method or another. There were hundreds of thumbs up signs, and horn toots, and passengers applauding out of windows, and to me this was a sign that unless we had inadvertently stumbled upon the most liberal intersection in Rome, then maybe the local political climate was shifting a bit back towards center, and maybe, just maybe, we might have a chance to pull this country out of its nose dive.

Of course, it was not all good times and gravy there at the corner of Turner-McCall and Riverside, and we saw plenty of ugly gestures—you know the one I’m talking about—and heard more than a few long horn blasts, the kind you hear at a red light when the guy behind you doesn’t think you are moving out of his way fast enough and tries to kill you with his horn. Two of the negative responses really stood out to me, and I want to share them with you.

The first was a little silver haired lady who drove by slowly, staring straight ahead. I swear, y’all, she looked like everyone’s grandma, which made what happened next so unsettling. She dared remove one hand from its death grip on the steering wheel, and with that free hand she shot us all a long, slow bird. That was disturbing, to be sure, and I bet this was the only time the poor dear ever felt compelled to make this particular gesture, but the expression on her face as she performed her version of a patriotic act was even more disquieting. She looked afraid, and I don’t think it was because she was driving one-handed.

The other notable negative response came from a big old corn-fed boy on a big, obnoxiously loud motorcycle, and if I were a participant on a game show called Pick The MAGA, I would have won an Amana refrigerator and a selection of hot sauce. He drove by in one direction, and from my vantage point I could see that down the road he made a U-turn. As he came back by us, he shouted FUCK Y’ALL over and over while his riding partner up in the seat behind him held up her hand in the shape of an L. This is the universal sign for “loser,” and I know this because my kids, when they were about ten, all liked to use it on me. There was clear anger in his message, a level of vitriol that I have seldom seen outside of a beer joint on a Saturday night, although I have to say she looked a bit sheepish up there, like maybe she should have listened to her mama after all.

I think both of these responses—fear and anger—sort of capture the MAGA mindset at this moment in time. These folks have gone from the jubilation of victory to the realization that they have been had. The man they placed all of their hopes upon is a charlatan, and even the most loyal of his followers is starting to see it. He is in it for the chaos, which produces the money, which gives him and his billionaire buddies the power, which is what they all want. We are all powerless alone in the face of this. All we can do is stand together and man the barricades, and hope that on a case by case basis, the fear and the anger that festers on the right turns into something more positive.